Operation Chasovoy
by Vacant Coffin
Summary: The untold struggle of the Russian Security's Service intense and unending struggle to stop the world's most notorious terrorist: Vladimir Makarov. NATO had Operation Kingfisher, the FSB had Operation Sentinel.
1. A brief history

After the Second Russian Civil war, and Ultranationalist thinking became the heart of the Kremlin, there was a huge radical change in Russian politics, a movement not seen since the Soviet Union. A fresh breath of hatred for the West met rapid Militarisation. Despite this change, extreme Ultranationalist Terrorism did not cease.

Vladimir Makarov was still at large, and he was not happy with the way Boris Vorshevsky was running the country. Despite declaring war on the entirety of NATO and successfully annexing much of the former Soviet bloc, the monster was still not satisfied, not until Russia once again became an empire. Ideas of peace talks between Russia and the West sparked further attacks, and inspired one of the largest Terrorist attacks in history, for which Russia was blamed.

All this is common knowledge by the year of 2019, however what was not recorded in history books, was the desperate struggle of Russia's Government to find and put a stop to Makarov's plans. Under one of one of the most secretive Security Services today, the FSB, the most desperate Counter-terrorism operation ever devised, Operation Chasovoy, was born.


	2. The Director's Dilemma

**July 24****th****, 2016.**

**FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Square, Moscow.**

**1200 hours.**

_A year into the combat struggle with NATO, and Russia was fast discovering the grave mistake they'd made by acting upon vengeance. The surprise attack on the United States had given the Red Bear an initial advantage, and had fast dug its claws into the heart of the nation; Washington DC.  
However, Ground Forces were incredibly dependent on armored and aerial support to keep advancing American troops at bay, a necessity which was taken from them immediately after the detonation of a high-altitude Electromagnetic Pulse device (EMP).  
Caught with their pants down, they were forced to abandon their grip of the white house, a monumental display of Russian power, and retreat back to the east coast._

_Alongside continuing pressures from neighboring China to end the war with the US, their biggest trade partner, the Russian Federation was facing a threat even closer to home. The Ultranationalist terrorist cells operating in and around Russia's borders were becoming an increasing problem. Although domestic attacks had ceased, the Kremlin saw them as a major threat to the state, and a deeply compromising thorn in their side that had successfully halted and prevent peace talks on multiple occasions._

_The Motherland was beginning to look for ways to end the war quickly, and if possibly, peacefully, but Makarov and his inner circle were putting any options out the Government's reach…_

At the headquarters of the Federal Security Service, Director Nikita Simonov rubbed his head as he closed a laptop, slouching back at his desk. He sat idly for a minute, before opening a draw to retrieve for a folder and some Painkillers.

It had been a long day for the Director; he had addressed a press-conference on the war earlier in the morning, had attended a lengthy meeting with the head figures of the Ministry of Internal Affairs and engaged in a long and painful video call with President on the minefield topic of his habit of over-stepping the defense budget.

The file he had begun reading had been produced by his colleague and close friend, using various pieces of intelligence gathered over the years to highlight possible solutions to the growing threat posed by Makarov, the leader of the extremist group of Ultranationalists Tucked in the dossier of top-secret information, were reports from GRU, suspicious bank statements and listed hotspots of terrorist activity.  
One idea put forward by the file's author caught Simonov's eye. A large scale counter-terrorism operation directed at Makarov's Inner Circle could essentially cripple their movements. Despite the enormity of the organization, employing harassment techniques towards their movements may be effective, while assault teams could move in on high-value-targets. An attempt to freeze all assets related even loosely to Makarov's organization was also a possibility.

A cautious man, Simonov was not prepared to catapult into another war, this time with a seemingly invisible enemy. The difficulty with such an operation would be the illusiveness of the Terrorist movement. How do you fight an enemy who hides behind proxies, fake businesses and civilians? Already engaged in one increasingly heated battle, Russia could not simply end it by starting another.

He scratched his stubble, his blue eyes darting from one page of notes to the next, it seemed there were few options left open, so he would have to make a decision.

Two days later, Simonov would approve the launch of a small Counter-terrorism surveillance operation, code named "Sentinel". This would prove to be the seedling of what was to rapidly escalate into a full-scale hunt for Makarov's head.


	3. Green Death

**July 30****th****, 2016.**

**German Southern Front, Prater Island, Munich.**

**1400 hours.**

Private Chase Richards of the US Army 1st Infantry Division was always considered a born fighter. From an early age, he had decided he would join the armed forces, a lifelong ambition he not long ago managed to achieve. However, this dream of his was fast turning into a nightmare. His career, so far, had brought him into the very thick of the war.  
The 19 year old had been in Germany for three weeks, and in that time had matured mentally more than the past five years combined.  
His first experience of conflict was what he needed to awaken him to the brutal, terrifying reality of armed combat, for no amount of training can prepare you for the effects of your first time coming under enemy fire. These weren't tracer rounds being fired over his head while he crawled under barbed wire, what Chase went through was hostile heavy calibre machinegun fire, and they were shooting to kill. After thirty minutes spent on an embarrassing trip to his bunk to change pants, he was still shaking.  
US forces had been holding the main bridge to Munich, and more or less the rest of Europe, for over six weeks.

American and German Tank Platoons were keeping Russian ground forces back to the north, which was perceived by command as a good defensive move. This was indeed a good defensive move; Berlin was secure, as was the majority of the Northern belt. Although this put a lot of pressure on troops further south, as enemy infantry began refocusing their front line to become bottom heavy.  
Day after day, Chase would watch as friendly Howitzers hammered the kill zone to the east, one of the few things holding the Russians at bay. 1st and 2nd Infantry divisions had dug in on Prater Island, a small mass of land on the Isar River, connecting via bridge to the rest of Munich.

Russian movements suggested a major offensive on the hastily established American position. Regular bombing runs, skirmishes and recon vehicles all implied that Ivan was gearing up for an assault, and the persistent acts of aggression were seen as attempts to weaken the line of defence.

The young Private stayed optimistic that any attempt to overwhelm Prater Island would be successfully resisted as their TOW launchers could disable almost any armour that got past the kill zone. This was an accurate observation; American Military officials anticipated that Russian forces would use heavy vehicles in any attempted assault and had prepared their troops as such.

Even in their infinite wisdom, what the brass had not accounted for was the use of chemical warfare deployed on a massive scale, well behind the western frontline. All across Europe, immeasurable amounts of deadly clouds of toxic gas were dispersed almost simultaneously in both urban areas and military installations.

All of this was a shock to Chase's system as he struggled to secure his gas mask over his head. All around him, he was surrounded by chaos as men drowned in a sea of gas, a deathly green that gathered more and more viciously by the second, carried through the American base by the wind. It blocked out the sky like a fog, so thick that the soldier could hardly see ten metres in front of him.  
Just a few moments ago, he had been cleaning out the portable toilets, a job his friend had given him, along with ten dollars and a gas mask, which he perceived as a joke. Perhaps it was some twist of fate that there was a filter already fitted in it.

He scampered amongst the madness, his mind still registering what had happened. All around him were the chokes of his friends as the deadly gas filled their lungs, a permanent look of horror and anguish was written on their faces.

A mixture of emotions bordering between fear and confusion made Chase shake uncontrollably as he tried to save the dying soldiers around him, a pointless task, whatever horrific compound this was, it was working fast and fatally. In spite of the growing disparity, Chase eventually found his CO, who had also secured his own gas mask in time. He was one of the few living souls Chase could see. He wanted to ask, beg, demand to be informed about what was happening, but it was useless, the officer seemed to be in a greater state of shock than he was. It was a bizarre sight, a strong, grounded figure of authority, gazing upon the horizon in awe. Chase waved a hand in front of his face, but there was no clear response. His gaze continued. Chase wondered what he was staring at, becoming more fearful. As he followed the man's eyes, squinting beyond the kill zone, it became clear what had stunned him into silence.

As the mist began to clear, the outline of T-90 main battle tanks rolled into view. Panicked, Chase began to tremble. He turned away to run, but his eyes remained fixed upon the sight of the red bear rolling towards him. The rumble of huge engines grew louder and louder, before a series of deafening blasts rang out. The last thing Chase saw before he was enveloped in blackness was rubble falling all around him, and the twisted metal of a guard tower tumbling down to greet him.


	4. Political Storm

** July 30****th****, 2016.**

**FSB Headquarters, Lubyanka Square, Moscow.**

**1700 Hours.**

The scene in the FSB main building was the same across all of the Russian security establishments; utter chaos.

Telephones rang out in chorus, men in suits ran through offices in mad frenzies, followed closely by secretaries juggling mountains of paperwork.  
The chemical gas strike in Europe was stirring up a commotion, the nature of which could only be described as a "political shit storm".

A disgruntled and fatigued assistant dodged another herd of government officials striding down the corridor to get to the Director's office. He straightened his tie and sheepishly knocked on the door.

Inside, Director Simonov was sat at his desk holding his head in his hands, as his personal advisor attacked him with pointless facts he already knew.

"I'm sorry Sir, but we simply can't release a statement under these current conditions. Nothing we say will help to defuse the situation, the best we can do is wait for-"

"No…" Simonov groaned, "no, no, no…" He lifted his head, showing his tired eyes and frayed hair.

"If we do nothing, the world will take our silence as a confirmation of these horrendous actions. They already believe it's us, they're just waiting for us to show signs of guilt." He spoke with a strained and feverish voice, ripped apart by the torrent of angry phone calls he had already received from powers higher than himself.

"Well sir, what other options do we have?" The advisor asked, equally beaten by the recent events.

The Director retreated into the embrace of his hands once again.  
"I don't know!" His muffled cry of defeat was hardly audible, but its message carried a clear and strong sense of surrender.

As if on cue however, an assistant's head poked through the door, clutching a file marked with the 'highly secret' stamp, embroidered with the double headed Eagle of the FSB. The Advisor was about to turn him away, but Simonov called him in.

The advisor seemed offended. "I doubt this is the time for-"

"What is it?" Simonov addressed the man with the folder, ignoring his other colleague entirely.

"I've some development on the operation you gave the green light earlier this week Sir, a counter-insurgency operation, dubbed 'Chasovoy'." He told the Director, keeping a distance from the desk.

"Bring it here." Simonov motioned for the assistant to come closer.

"Well Sir, if you see here, a few days before the attack, satellite imaging picked up a number of containers being shipped from Eastern to Western Europe. We tracked their movement; it so happens that they were registered to a chemical research company. We believe it was the front for the attack. Furthermore, immediately before the attack, Commander of the 2nd Armoured Division went missing, yet somebody gave the order to attack the American installation on Prater Island." The assistant thumbed through the documents, showing a number of photographs taken from aerial views.

"Are you saying that terrorists are responsible for this?" Simonov looked over the documents.

"We believe any operation conducted by a rogue force wouldn't involve civilian shipping Sir, they would have no need to use a proxy company at all. I would bet my salary that Vladimir Makarov orchestrated the attack. He used a fake business to ship volatile substances across Europe, then kidnapped one of our high ranking officers, and forced him to give our troops the order to mobilize."

Simonov sat in silence for a few moments, his eyes staring forward. He appeared to be still processing the information.

"What use is this to us now? Why wasn't this information given to us earlier, _before _the attack!?" The advisor piped up, demanding an answer.

"Orders were to observe, we were only told to intervene if anything substantial were to occur."

"And this didn't fall under that category?"

"It did, but we only received the processed files today, the chain of command is very long before it reaches our offices." The assistant dodged the stabs made at him with the expertise of a politician. The advisor stared him down like a protective wife.

"What are these showing?" the Director piped up, pointing at drone images depicting a number of the containers in a muddy, run down shipping yard.

"These were taken in Somalia sir, we believe they are left over chemical containers, they never made it into transit to Europe."

"Alright, I want you to get on the line to GRU, organize an intel recovery mission under chasovoy. This operation is to become our immediate priority, if we find the containers, we can clear our name, and possibly Makarov." Simonov stood up, rubbing his hands at the prospect of a light at the end of this seemingly endless tunnel.

"I've already made the appropriate calls, Sir, we have a team of Special Forces operatives are on standing by. They're some of the best Sir, I don't believe they'll let us down."

"You work fast…what about press talks?"

"Maintaining FSB tradition, we're silencing any rumors from figures within Moscow, Sir."

The director gave a low chuckle and smiled, "Good to hear, you're going to go far in this job, son."


	5. Men of Legend

**August 02****nd****, 2016.**

**Eastern swamps, Somalia, 30 miles east of DZ "**_**Alfa**_**".**

**0700 hours.**

The hot, humid air was thick with the stench of death. Bodies lay strewn on the side of a dirt path, a wooden hut stood aimlessly beside a low stream. This was the third guard post Artyom and his team had come across. He lay in the water with his face down in the muddy bed, doing his best not to breathe, move or gag.

He could hear movement around him, voices, shouting and the cocking of guns. They had been spotted.

Artyom felt heavy feet splash into the stream where he and his team lay still, they were still playing dead as planned. He considered it a miracle nobody had come up for air.

He felt a sharp foot in his side, but he let out no air, then he felt a hand tug on his shoulder, turning him over, and he knew he was in trouble. He got a good look at the two men standing over him, local Militia; they both had some variant of the Kalashnikov, and were raising them to Artyom's face.

Before a shot could be fired however, a hand shovel struck one of the gunmen in the skull. It didn't just hit the man's head, it stuck in it, splitting it open. He slumped to the ground like a dead weight.

His counterpart spun around, but couldn't see who had attacked his friend. There was nobody there; it was as if a Poltergeist had just struck the poor man.

Seeing his aggressor was distracted, Artyom seized his chance. He leapt from the stream and grabbed the fool by his neck and pulled him down into the stream, tripping his leg for good measure. He knelt down on top of the local fighter, firmly planted his knee into the small of his back and held his head under the water in an attempt to drown him. When the struggle became too much, Artyom grabbed a large stone from the waterbed and struck the man five times across the head in rapid succession, quickly finishing him off. He dropped the stone, now stained red, and let the blood flow into the river, leaving the body to pick up his AK-104.

He was quickly joined by one of his comrades, codename Sergei, who walked over to the second of the two corpses to retrieve his thrown shovel. Sergei was a few meals slimmer than Artyom, sporting a trimmed head void of almost any hair.

"From 16 feet, beat that." He boasted as he dislodged the tool from his victim's head.

"Try doing that under heavy fire and while the target is moving." Artyom responded, checking his weapon's suppressor was intact.

"Show off." Sergei remarked jokingly.

"Shut up, skinhead." Artyom said with a low laugh.

"Can it, both of you! We have a job to do." Another operative made himself known, Fedov, the team leader. He stood with broader shoulders than either of the other men, and his face was the bearer of more battle scars. Before the dissolution of the unit, Fedov had been part of the elite and highly secretive _Vympel _unit. Despite his age, the man was fast, powerful and sharp, much like the blade he mastered. He had more combat experience than Artyom and Segei combined, and was the stuff that gave Specnaz their legacy amongst Special Forces around the world.

"_Dvy, _we still have a ways to go." He spoke commandingly, and with that, they fell into a professional silence, quickly hiding the bodies before they continued upstream, keeping to the bushes.

As they moved, Artyom ran the mission briefing through his head one last time.

"Satellite images have picked up activity in Eastern Africa. Drones have confirmed suspicions; _shipments of chemical compounds, suspected of being directly linked to the attack on Europe a few days ago. Their exact position is unknown, they have been in transit for two days, but we believe they are being stored for deportation in Somalia. You are to find where they are being kept, and gather any information you can find on Makarov or the attack. We do not expect him to be nearby, but should any of his lieutenants show their faces, orders are to capture and interrogate at the first chance. After gathering intel, destroy any traces of your presence, then fall back to the LZ for helo exfil." _

'Any traces of your presence…' Artyom figured that meant witnesses too. This op would be run of the mill, if it weren't for the waves of pirates and militia this place was crawling with. As soon as they were out of the swamps, there would be fighters everywhere, an awful lot of witnesses…


End file.
